


Cash Rules Everything Around Me

by TrinesRUs



Series: Transformers: To Destroy [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Class Issues, Dark Comedy, Gen, Pre-War, Slapstick, characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrinesRUs/pseuds/TrinesRUs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swindle's mentor taught him everything she knew about business and surviving Cybertron's caste system before she passed away, leaving him with what little she built. A little under half of it gets thrown away as Swindle makes his own rules. The other half is destroyed when he encounters the name Decepticon.</p><p>Each part of the <em>Transformers: To Destroy</em> series can be read independently, but <em>Tenets of the Dusk's Lucidity</em> is recommended reading for the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cash Rules Everything Around Me

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, the title comes from "C.R.E.A.M." by Wu-Tang Clan.
> 
> This is...probably my most tonally weird story in the series (at time of posting). There's nothing _really_ awful, but violence and threats of it--sometimes from a character in a caretaker position--are used as dark comedy, which may be uncomfortable for some readers. Additional weirdness may spring from the first two chapters basically being a "How did they become the character we know and love?"
> 
> I think it's pretty clear that this series is an AU, but just in case it wasn't...This is an AU.

            Swindle stared up at his master with optics that desperately wanted to close against the brutal winds of Peptex. Acidic vapor and specks of corroded metal blew off the Rust Sea and through their sparse city. Thick particles whipped at his bare protoform and flew down his vents. His optics burned. It wasn’t long before the environment overtook him, and Swindle heaved forward, hacking out the dust clogging his systems.

            Loot brought her elbow down hard on his helm. “Up! Try again.” When he didn’t immediately straighten up, she grabbed him by his dorsal plating and hauled him up. “Look at me.”

            Lubricant streamed from the corners of his optics, trying to dispel the acid from his components. Swindle glanced at the empty stalls behind them. The market, like most of the city, had been shut down for the first half of the Deca-Cycle of Refuge, in remembrance of the mechs who were forced underground in ancient times. Swindle and Loot were the only mechs outside, and he didn’t understand what benefit they could gain from it.

            “Don’t even think about it,” said Loot. “If I can stand out here, so can you.”

            “You have actual armor.”

            “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you had somewhere else to live until your upgrades finished. In that case, get out.”

            Swindle was half tempted to follow through on that order, dry tone be damned. Maybe it was the fact that he was created in the orbital-cycle of Ferruneon: trickery was in his spark. Between the facts that living elsewhere cost credits he didn’t have and that Loot would probably grab him by the audial and drag him back if he tried to leave anyway, he knew he couldn’t actually walk away. It was an amusing idea to entertain, but he was stuck in Peptex until the sol Loot keeled over and hopefully left him enough credits to leave the lousy city behind.

            Those thoughts didn’t protect him from the strike of the wind, though. He crumpled to the ground, coughing out rust particles. His optics didn’t hurt anymore, but he could still feel liquid streaming down his faceplate. Loot knelt by him, and Swindle tensed, expecting another bump on the helm.

            He wasn’t expecting gentle servos on his faceplate or the muffled, “Frag.” When Loot pulled her servos away, they were covered in energon. It took a moment to sink in that it was his own. Swindle bit his lipplates to fight down a cry. Loot scooped him into her arms and rushed him to the shelter of their stall, back beyond what could be seen from the street to the small residential space they shared.

            Loot laid him down on the mat they had in place of a proper berth and pulled out the medical kit. Swindle remembered the first time he’d gotten injured, he had asked her why they couldn’t go to a real hospital. She’d told him, “It’s coming out of your inheritance,” and that had been enough to shut him up. Besides, Loot had enough skill to patch them both up most of the time, though he had no idea where low-caste mechs like them could pick up medical practice.

            “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she muttered. “If you can’t adjust to this environment, it wasn’t worth commissioning a replacement in the first place. I’m going to return to the Well, and everything I built will fall to ruin.” Despite her words, her E.M.-field wavered with genuine worry.

            “Built what?” he wheezed. “If you’d built anything, we wouldn’t be stuck in this dump.”

            Loot wrenched his helm up and shoved a bottle down his intake. Swindle gagged, but then the smooth elixir washed down his systems, soothing away the sting of acid and rust.

*

            Every stall but theirs played music. There were many things about the way Loot ran their business that he didn’t like, though he was learning to understand, but this is one he _did_ like that he _didn’t_ understand. All the music around clashed together in painful disharmony, blaring until the sound cluttering the air could almost choke out the physical contaminants, yet mechs strolled down the street without flinching.

            “Why don’t we play that scrap?” Swindle asked.

            Loot smiled while behind the counter. That was another thing that confused him. The moment they were out of public view, that smile dropped like nothing, but the instant other mechs were around, there it was: easy, not forced, but not genuine, either. “Why would we?” she replied. “You said it yourself. It’s scrap.”

            “Because it gets customers.”

            She lifted an optic ridge. “You think that’s the only way to get customers?” She bent down and gave him a surprisingly affectionate nuzzle on the helm. “You’re horribly uncreative.” Her voice was low enough to get lost under the music around them, and her tone was deceptively goopy.

            “Excuse me,” said a mech as xe approached the stall, “but is that your…?”

            “Apprentice,” Loot replied. “I just can’t help thinking of him as my own little youngling, you know? How about we give the nice mech a smile, huh?” She squished his cheekplates. Swindle forced a smile. The customer cooed. Loot patted her apprentice on the helm and asked, “What can I do you for, mech?”

            “I busted my windshield wipers. The doc said he could repair the mechanism, but I had to bring the replacements myself.”

            Loot tutted. “Can you believe that?” She directed the question at Swindle, but he got the impression that he wasn’t expected to answer. “Medics are supposed to patch us up and have all this handled, but they expect _us_ to have parts _they_ should supply.

            “You’ve come to the right place, mech,” she continued, turning back to the customer. “We have the highest quality replacement parts this side of the Rust Sea or any other, in every size and style.” She took a few different sets of windshield wipers from the shelves and set them before xem. “This set is just your regular sleek, simple design. Like two sticks in front of your faceplate, really. These are a bit more interesting. Just as practical as the normal design, but with a little extra flourish. Now, if you _really_ want to get fancy, _these_ are our latest and best. They heat themselves with just a thought and cut through dust and ice like nothing. And we’re offering a deal this deca-cycle, so they can be yours at the low price of three hundred credits.”

            Xe hesitated. “I’m not sure the fancy ones will integrate with my systems.”

            “Sure they will! All they have to do is be attached like any other pair, and they’ll sync up to your processor just fine.”

            “Oh…Okay, I’ll buy them!”

            “Hey, you were brave to wander out in our worst season for weather.” Loot grinned and retrieved a tin of polish from behind her. “How about you treat yourself a little bit. This wind is killer on your finish, but this will have you shining like you just got plated. _And_ it reinforces your paint so it will stand up until the wind dies down. Only seventy-five credits more, and I’ll throw in a free cloth with it.”

            As they waved away their customer, satisfied with xyr purchases, Loot muttered to Swindle, “See what you can do without making everyone’s audials rupture?” She jerked her helm to the side. “You wanna give it a try?”

            Swindle scurried into his master’s place immediately. Within a klik, they had another customer. “Hello, how can we help you?”

            Their new customer looked around as though she hadn’t heard him. She held her nasal ridge high as she surveyed their storefront. From the sheen of her finish, it seemed reasonable to presume she was from one of the upper castes, though he couldn’t yet tell a Noble or a Royal mech from a particularly uptight Intellectual one. “Is this all, then?”

            The implication that their wares weren’t good enough made Swindle bristle. If she didn’t like what they were offering, why had she come over in the first place? Before he could give voice to the question, however, Loot grabbed him by the pauldron and jabbed a finger at her grin. Swindle deflated and plastered on a smile of his own. “We have a few items in the back, if you’re looking for something specific. What were you hoping for?”

            “I saw you had a youngling over here,” said the snob, ignoring him in favor of his master. “I presumed you would have supplies for them.”

            “This is my apprentice,” Loot corrected. “Us humble Servile mechs can’t handle younglings otherwise. But he’s a cute little rascal, isn’t he?” She patted his helm. Swindle was getting really sick of the condescending physical affection. “If you don’t mind me asking, is your youngling sparked or protoformed?”

            If possible, the customer’s nasal ridge went higher into the air. “My _amica_ ’s youngling is protoformed.”

            “Ah, pardon me for assuming. But yes, we should have some suitable supplies in the back. Are you shopping for health or entertainment?”

            They cycled through many such exchanges as the solar-cycle progressed. Loot let Swindle take over several times, but she had to step in for more than half of them. By the end, if he’d gotten a credit chip for every time he was patted and cooed over, he would have been able to fill their register. “Cute little rascal?” he asked Loot when they closed up shop for the sol.

            “You should be happy we have that tool. You won’t be able to make credits off that sparkling-face in a couple stellar-cycles.”

            Swindle lifted an optic ridge. “You wanna bet?” Because if his faceplate couldn’t earn credits without his youth, he didn’t see why she put so much emphasis on smiling.

*

            Loot left their stall a couple sols every deca-cycle, after closing time, for upwards of two joors. Swindle avoided going with her as often as possible, but she saw outings as another part of his training, getting him used to the atmosphere and making him commit the layout of the city to memory. She always tucked away their earnings for the deca-cycle in subspace, whether he was coming along or not, as though she considered him as much of a potential thief as anyone else in their neighborhood.

            (She was absolutely right, but did it really count as theft when it was essentially his earnings anyway?)

            Usually, when they went out, it was to buy energon. There was only so much storage space in the residential side of their shack, and they could only afford so much fuel between deca-cycles besides. That particular deca-cycle had treated them well, and even if the air still made him woozy, at least he didn’t have to deal with an empty tank on top of it.

            Parts of Peptex were more heavily populated than others. It was overall one of Cybertron’s smaller cities, just above meeting the qualifications to be called a city at all. What it had in area, it lost in the lack of density—both in population and the spread of buildings. The market where they lived was a little tighter packed architecturally but little lived in, due to the less desirable proximity to one of the more toxic bays of the Rust Sea. The further side of the city, with its sparser and bigger buildings, was more appealing for those who could afford fresh air.

            The store where they purchased their energon was somewhere between the two regions. It was surreal for Swindle, seeing upper caste mechs without the separation of a counter. Many of them sped along the road in alt-mode. Swindle was too young to have his own wheels, let alone a full alt.

            “This would be a lot faster if you carried me on your roof,” said Swindle.

            “And let you get out of the character-building experience of marching on your own two pedes? Not a chance.”

            An otherworldly screech split the air, and Swindle whipped around to see a battered mech being dragged along the road by a collar attached to a pole. Her plating scraped and sparked on the street as she kicked and flailed for freedom. No one stopped to help her. Most just turned their helms and continued on their ways. Those few who did acknowledge the scene simply nodded to the mech dragging her and kept walking.

            “Don’t look,” Loot hissed.

            How could he not look? The mech on the ground was wailing like she was trying to alert all of Cybertron, and her limbs were flying around like she thought she could propel herself into the air by the force of their movements alone.

            “ _Don’t look_ ,” Loot repeated, grabbing his helm forcefully and jerking it away from the scene. “Never acknowledge anyone beneath you. They can’t offer you anything.” She squeezed his plating. “But always smile at the mechs above you, even when there isn’t a chance for a credit.”

            He smiled like she told him, but he still asked, “Why?”

            “He’s keeping crime down and our streets clean,” she said. As the mech dragging the pole passed them, Loot grinned a little broader and nodded at him. “You don’t want him deciding you need to be cleaned away, do you?”

*

            The next outing Loot took him on was a little different from usual. It was at night, for starters. Instead of taking him into the city, she guided him closer to the Rust Sea. Swindle’s systems were finally adjusting to the atmosphere of Peptex’s market sector, but his systems fizzed like the solar-cycles he spent learning to survive.

            Through the haze of chemicals rolling off the sea, Swindle couldn’t see where they were going for several kliks. When they stopped, he had no idea what made their destination any different from the rest of the bay. Then they waited. He thought about asking his master why they were wasting energy reserves waiting in the smog, but then a silhouette broke into view, which then split into two silhouettes. The figures emerged from the fog, one in bipedal mode and one as a jet, and Loot immediately stuck her servo out.

            “Gutcruncher,” she greeted, “how nice of you to make this detour.”

            “If this was a detour, I wouldn’t have shown up.” He glared at Swindle. “I thought you would be alone.”

            “This is my apprentice, Swindle.”

            Gutcruncher appraised Swindle from helm to pede. “Purple optics. Those are rare.” He started to reach a massive servo for the youngling’s faceplate. “I could make a killing off of those.”

            Loot caught his wrist. “Touch him, and I will ram your servo up your own aft so far that I could make you grab your own spark and rip it out.”

            “My optics are not up for grabs,” Swindle agreed. “If they’re really as valuable as you say, we need to talk money first.”

            “You’re not selling your optics.”

            “I’ll give you four thousand credits for them.”

            “ _He’s not selling his optics_.”

            “I don’t think dead mechs walking get a say in what the living do,” said Gutcruncher.

            “Maybe you should keep that in mind for yourself, scrapheap. Newsparks hardly count as living, and I’m still kicking harder than you or your jet friend.”

            “They don’t commission replacements for living mechs. What did you contract, Loot? What’s picking apart your chassis from the inside that gave you an apprentice at such a young age.”

            Loot was silent.

            “Early onset metal fatigue,” Gutcruncher declared. “Your grip is getting weaker.”

            She tightened her servo. “I can still rip your arm out of the socket and beat you over the helm with it.”

            “You wouldn’t. You’d lose your best business partner.”

            “And if you touch the brat’s optics, you’ll lose everything.”

            After a beat, Gutcruncher pulled away, and the grown mechs went on with business as though nothing had ever happened. It was a bit jarring, but Swindle jumped into haggling once his shock wore off.

            Loot transformed into truck mode and said, “Alright, load ‘er up.”

            The jet opened a hatch, and Gutcruncher got to work transferring cargo from one vehicle to another. When they finished, they draped a tarp over Loot’s bed and left. Swindle expected his master to take him back to their stall, but instead, she led him to a warehouse on the far side of the city. Cargo and credits were exchanged.

            Swindle woke up the next sol on a real berth. Loot was still in recharge, propped up against the wall.

*

            When the time for his first armor upgrade arrived, Loot let him decide which part of his frame he wanted fitted. Considering the trouble he’d had with the wind and how valuable he thought an extra barrier would be, Swindle chose to have his chestplate attached.

            He felt really proud of his decision until he tripped coming out of the smith’s store and his top-heavy upgrade kept his pedes from bracing the ground properly. Loot smirked as she helped him up. “In business and life, _always_ start with a strong foundation before you try reinforcing anything else,” she said.


End file.
